


Thunder

by wildcannabis



Category: South Park
Genre: Addiction, Cars, Freedom, Gen, Independence, Small Towns, Teenagers, joyriding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:24:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcannabis/pseuds/wildcannabis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An addiction, Kenny thinks, is when nothing on Earth can make you feel quite as alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

Suddenly, it was like I wasn’t _in_ control, like I’d lost all sense of anything remotely _like_ it. And at the same time, my own bare hands, my fucking pinky finger, was all that was keeping me tethered here to this world. I was soaring.

The radio was on, but I wasn’t paying attention to the music blasting around me, the bass thrumming in the seats; it was lost on me, as if I were travelling faster than the speed of sound. All around me, landscapes blurred together into one giant, tangled, green-and-white conglomeration, and in front of me, I was devouring the expanse of never-ending road ahead, the wheels of the Thunderbird storming across the divide. There was absolutely nothing like it.

Careless blonde locks dancing in wind, alight under the golden sun of spring’s poignantly sweet end, I drove on and on, my eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. I could crush an army of men, I could defeat a dragon, brandishing only the treads beneath me, the supple, leathery seats bearing my feathery weight.

How the hell did I afford this thing? Well, it wasn’t mine, actually. But right now, that didn’t even matter; no, not in the slightest. Right now, I was _God._ There was no sweeter escape. Foot flat against the pedal, I was careening down the deserted stretch of highway leading around the back of the mountain, a road that wasn’t direct nor convenient enough to be used by anyone this time of year.

In all the years I’d been street racing here, I didn’t think I’d ever seen another car, much less a cop. Today I was alone. No competition, no shady crowds with masks for faces, hugging the peripheries and watching us barrel down the road at half-past midnight. Just me and the Thunderbird I’d temporarily grand-theft-auto’d (AKA, took for a spin out of the garage I worked at).

The top was down – that was just a given, right there – and on my bare chest, a metallic dog tag glinted and glimmered in the sunlight. I’d ditched my shirt on the passenger seat, the exhilarating peel of crisp air roving all over my skin too great to do without. Mindlessly, I steered with one hand, occasionally looking up out of my reverie to glance at the partly-cloudy sky overhead, a sunny grin easily fixing on my features.

It wasn’t that I was _happy,_ driving out back here with a fucking kickass car and a hundred miles of emptiness, all to myself. No, it was more that I was able to be separate from everything else under the sun, save the car, save the road. I was in flight, I was freed from the burdens of a small, lazy town in Colorado. I was free from all the indolent people there, even free from my friends, my dime-a-dozen family. Most importantly, I could escape myself. All that I was in these moments was a gust of air, propelled limitlessly forward, cascading rapidly over the land. I didn’t have to be me; I could simply give away all control, the daredevil in me thrusting outward and running with the wind, bringing the fucking thunder.


End file.
